


and feel what it's like to be new

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8836939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: ‘I will not stand idly by and let you become the smelliest guy on our floor. It would crush pot-head Rick’s dreams. And you know those are all he has.’ 
[Or: Five times Matt and Foggy take care of each other.]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sara_wolfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/gifts).



1.

“Hey Matty,” Foggy’s voice cuts through the haze of not-quite sleep and sweat-stale bedding he’s given himself over to for the last--well, Matt’s not actually sure. His days have devolved into cycles of sleep and pretending to sleep. Sometimes he hears Foggy’s careful voice asking if he’s going to class today or letting him know that he got a recording of Matt's civ-pro lecture off Sandra or that he brought Matt a sandwich from the cafeteria if he wants it.

(Foggy’s been so careful with Matt since he picked him up in his uncle’s borrowed truck, like he thinks Matt’s going to crumble if he raises his voice above a cautious whisper. It would annoy Matt if he had it in him to care but right now all he wants to do is sleep and not exist for a little while longer, just until he can forget the feel of Sweeney's face under his knuckles, the sound of Elektra's steps fading away).

Foggy comes closer and Matt hears the disappointed sigh that rattles in his lungs, turns his face into his pillow and doesn’t answer. Matt keeps quiet and waits for Foggy to leave like every other time Matt’s left him hanging. 

It doesn’t work this time. 

Today Foggy sits on the sliver of bed left over at Matt’s back, an abrupt free fall of heavy limbs that upsets the mattress beneath him. “C’mon Matt, I know you’re awake.” He’s lying, or maybe he’s just nervousness, Matt can’t decide, keeps himself perfectly still like that might help him go unnoticed. “Look you don’t have to tell me what happened,” Foggy starts, a practiced quality to the words that makes a wiggling annoyance rise up from Matt’s belly. “But I will not stand idly by and let you become the smelliest guy on our floor. It would crush pot-head Rick’s dreams. And you know those are all he has.” Foggy’s chuckle catches on the backs of his teeth. His hand lands heavy at Matt’s hip. Matt's body goes tense, but Foggy's hand doesn't move. They're both quiet for a long beat.

Foggy's hand squeezes briefly, he sucks in a deep breath. “Okay, don’t hate me.” He says, trepidation rising in his voice as he gets to his feet. Matt barely has time to react before the blanket is being pulled back and he’s left exposed in the open air without his blanket cocoon. 

“ _Guh_.” He tries to wrestle them from Foggy’s grip, tugs and yanks but Foggy’s got a better hold of them, uses his leverage to pull them off Matt completely. The blanket falls to the dorm room floor in a deadened whoosh. Shit. If Stick could see him now. It's almost enough to make Matt laugh. 

“Lo! He speaks.” Foggy jokes mirthlessly. Matt clenches his teeth, swallows the dry stale taste in his mouth and tries to block out the sound of Foggy’s anxious heart beating away inside his chest. “Go away Foggy.”

He sounds pathetic in his own ears--is this what Elektra saw in him, standing in that foyer with Roscoe Sweeney’s blood on his hands, this weakness Stick recognized in him, that Matt’s always been afraid of--rolls on his back so that at least he doesn’t feel so much at a disadvantage. 

Foggy stands his ground, stays still despite the upset growling in his stomach, the sour scent of nervous sweat building on his skin. “Nope, not happening today buddy.” Matt scowls, props himself up on his elbows and glares in the direction of Foggy’s voice. “I don’t need you to baby me.” 

Foggy snorts. “Good because I think we’ve established I’m a really shitty babysitter. Ask my sister if you need receipts.” He kicks at the blanket on the floor. There's a rustle when he shrugs, the tension in the room holding steady the longer Foggy takes to talk. Finally he clears his throat, starts again. “You don’t want to talk. That cool. You don’t want to go to class--and that’s like, a riskier gambit but you’re the biggest nerd I know so, okay.” He fidgets nervously, sweeps his fingers through his hair. “But you, this--it’s sort of scary. Not like--listen, I’m just worried about you and I don’t know what happened out there with her but I’m just gonna say that whatever it was, it was shitty of her to just leave you up there like that and maybe you’re not blameless or whatever but like, you didn’t deserve that and you--” Foggy cuts himself off. “I’m probably overreaching wildly here but you’re kind of important to me. As like a roommate and future business partner. Any y'know, you’re my best friend.” Foggy draws in a shaky breath. Blood continues pooling in his face. “And it kills me to see you like this.” The sincerity in his voice lands like a gut punch, makes Matt’s stomach ache. 

“Foggy--”

“Hear me out: Give your bed a break, Murdock. Shower. Let us venture out into the world in search of sustenance more complex than cafeteria sandwiches. My treat. Hell I’ll throw in libations, just pick your poison.” Foggy hovers nervously an arm’s width away. “You just have to...get up for a bit. What do you say Matty?” There’s desperation beneath Foggy’s words, an uncharacteristic caution. Matt rubs at his face with a trembling hand. 

He doesn’t want to. There aren't words for how much he does not want to move. Behind his palm he blinks, thinks of how tired he is. But Foggy is standing there, expectation heavy in the air and Matt can’t take being another disappointment. Foggy holds his breath. Matt swings his legs over the edge of the bed frame. The floorboards are rough under the soles of Matt’s feet, but he’s known worse. He covers the distance between his bed and his dresser on autopilot, rifles through his drawer in search of something clean to wear. He lets muscle memory carry him down the hall, into the farthest empty shower stall he can find. 

He’s scrubbing shampoo out of his hair when he hears the restroom door open. There’s a faint echo, approaching footsteps as the restroom door swings shut again. Matt barely catches it, thinks he would miss it if he weren't so familiar with the sound of it. Even beneath the falling water he picks up the sound of Foggy’s heart, still quick and anxious. He lingers for a long second, hesitating by the sink counter and Matt tips his face into the water stream, drowns out the sound of Foggy’s breathing. When he ducks out from under the spray Foggy’s gone again. Matt sags against the shower wall, lets the warm water fall over him in an unrelenting current, until the rhythmic patter of water on his skin beats his mind empty. Matt wishes he could cast everything away with the water sluicing down the drain.

He goes back to the room scrubbed clean, skin beginning to chill outside the steam warmed air of the restroom. Foggy’s opened the windows while Matt was out, the room filled with the cold March air. The room feels bigger. Matt blinks, shivers and feels more awake than he has in weeks. "Hey." Foggy says, voice just slightly too polite to actually be natural. He doesn't say anything about checking up on Matt so Matt doesn't say anything either. He's not supposed to know anyhow. 

They don’t actually go out for food, but Matt stays upright at his desk while they wait for the mountain of Chinese food Foggy orders. He opens his laptop and cleans out his inbox, cluttered with spam and email chains from study groups and campus organizations Matt's been mostly absent from for the last semester. Sorting through his backlogged correspondence is a headache all its own, Matt's actually relieved when Foggy's phone vibrates and he excuses himself to go pick up their food downstairs.

They eat in near silence. Foggy thrusts an assortment of boxes containing things both pan-fried and dripping with syrupy sauces, steamed rice and mixed vegetables and it doesn't take Matt long to figure out every single thing he ordered is something Matt likes, a meal composed of favorites, a small unspoken gesture that makes his throat constrict. Foggy puts a movie on his laptop with the audio-track turned on but Matt doesn't think either of them pay much attention. They eat until the food's nearly gone. Matt's surprised by how much he put away, hadn't realized how hungry he was until he'd started eating. Maybe its all that food sitting heavy in his belly that leaves no room for anything else, makes Matt feel like he should open his mouth and talk. He wants to tell Foggy what happened, with Elektra and Sweeney, with his dad and the accident, wants to tell Foggy the whole truth about himself but there's that age-old fear, that worry that's held Matt back since he was ten years old and terrified of what he'd become, holding him back still). 

Instead Matt asks about Foggy's outline for the brief he has due next week, listens to him and offers what little he can. Tomorrow, Matt thinks later that night while brushing his teeth, tomorrow he’ll go to the library. Tomorrow he’ll figure out where he left off and where he has to catch up and how the hell he’s going to do that. 

(He doesn’t. But Matt will get out of bed before Foggy calls his name. Matt will go to class and listen carefully, block out the whispers that rise up around him wherever he appears. He’ll do it the next day too, and the next and the next. He’ll keep doing it until it stops feeling like an exception and becomes the rule of life again. Elektra doesn't come back but Matt’s life will continue. He’ll stop living in spite of her absence and just live.)

He sits up a little while longer because it seems to put Foggy at ease. They relocate to Foggy’s bed and sit side by side against the headboard with Foggy’s laptop balanced across their thighs. Foggy puts on another movie, a musical this time, and he doesn’t say anything when Matt leans against him, more than strictly necessary despite the narrowness of the bed. Matt listens to the thin voices harmonizing through the tiny speakers and Foggy’s breathing and tracks the blood going to his own stomach to help digest his massive meal.

He wakes up to Foggy placing the laptop on the floor next to the bed, face half-buried in Foggy’s pillow now. He makes a soft noise and Foggy shushes him, pulls the blankets up over him before he gets off the bed. Matt tries to follow his movements around the room but it’s hard, sleep dulling his perception. He manages to catch the click of the light switch, feels every shift of the mattress and tug of the bedding as Foggy climbs back into bed. “You really need to do laundry buddy. Your bed’s pretty gross.” Foggy whispers, one hand gripping Matt’s arm just above his elbow. 

If he concentrates Matt can almost feel Foggy’s pulse beating in his fingers, but Matt’s tired enough to settle for the warmth of Foggy’s palm bleeding through his sleeve. Foggy’s steadfast heart echoes in Matt’s ears and keeps him company as he falls back to sleep.

2.

Matt has magical hands. 

“You have magic hands.” Foggy sighs, lets his head drop a little more heavily into Matt’s grip. His arm is a weird numb stump in a cast resting against his stomach, which is an improvement from the spike of burning pain it had been right after the bicyclist took him down, but Foggy’s not even worried right now about how he’s going to type that paper for Montenegro’s class one handed. Such is the magic of Matt’s hands. 

Okay, the prescription painkillers probably help too. 

Overhead Matt laughs, sinks his fingers into Foggy’s hair again, rubs at his scalp with his knuckles and just the right amount of pressure to make Foggy melt. “Thanks Fog, I’ll add it to my resume.” 

“You should, man. Don’t hide this talent in a bush basket. Or whatever.” He can’t really shrug in this position, reclining against the sink in their itty-bitty bathroom, partially slouched in one of the hard plastic chairs they picked up at a flea market for their joint desk-slash-dining table. Matt chuckles again, apparently willing to cut Foggy some slack given his injured state. From his seat, Foggy's got a pretty good view of the scrape on Matt's chin, a souvenir of his own crash onto the concrete, all red and angry looking. Luckily, it’s the worst of Matt's injuries. Foggy’s pretty sure Matt only fell because he didn’t let go of Foggy’s arm when gravity summoned him to ground level, but it doesn’t seem worth hashing out now that they're here. 

The warm water feels good trickling over his head when Matt turns the tap on, rinsing the lather and Foggy’s ill-fated orange juice out his hair, the bland, one-note smell of store-brand shampoo finally displacing the sugary citrus smell of a Florida orange grove. Oh, small blessings.

“You doing alright there, buddy?” Matt asks, his early laughter smoothed over, replaced by the quiet concern he’s been steadily and determinedly projecting from the moment Foggy rolled over and announce his arm hurt like a motherfucker. He hovered at the urgent care clinic and frowned solemnly when Foggy told him it was definitely a break and asked no less than twelve times if Foggy’s arm hurt on their way to the 24-hour pharmacy to pick up Foggy’s prescription.

(“Wanna sign my cast?” Foggy asks on the subway, head starting to buzz, trying to distract himself from the sticky-icky feeling of his hair against his neck and face. “Tell me where.” Matt answers, accepting the permanent marker Foggy digs out of his backpack, scrawling his name in a single sweep of his hand just below the crook of Foggy’s elbow.)

“Sleepy. _Stoned_.” Foggy says, the s-sounds slippery on his tongue. “You?” 

“Almost done, promise.” Matt answers, which isn’t what Foggy was asking at all. Still he lets his eyes falls shut again, coasts on the floaty feeling buoying him up from the inside. The rushing water swooshes in his ears. He wants to ask Matt if this is what the world is like for him, dark and loud. He wonders what Matt would say. The guy's an emotional steel trap.

Matt presses his thumbs down firmly over the curve of Foggy’s head, from forehead to crown while his other fingers cradle the back of Foggy’s skull. Foggy makes a noise he means too deeply to be embarrassed by at the moment. He thinks he might propose to Matt on the spot. 

“Sure but I expect a ring. At least three goats.” Matt answers and Foggy can feel the blood rising in his face, glad at least that Matt can’t see how hard he’s blushing right now. He opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of Matt’s face, turned downward so that Foggy has a clear view of it. Matt’s mouth is soft, relaxed into an easy smile that makes Foggy feel like he’s swallowed a whole emporium of butterflies. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He manages; momentarily lulled by the careful way Matt combs his fingers through his hair to check that he’s gotten all the shampoo out. 

“Wait.” Matt says, patting one damp hand against Foggy’s shoulder, leaving dark fingerprints behind on the fabric, and then Matt’s reaching for an extra towel, wrapping Foggy’s hair up so that it doesn’t drip all over the place, laying the towel down gently over Foggy's shoulder. He doesn't know if its the drugs or a trick of the light but he thinks Matt might be blushing. 

“Thanks Matty.” Foggy says, and he blames the late hour and the adrenaline crash and the painkillers and Matt’s magic hands for the twitchy-fuzzy tangled ball of capital-E emotions he feels when he says it, warm all over for reasons that have nothing to do with the heat still trapped in his damp hair.

Matt grins at him, suddenly bashful, ducks his scraped chin and drops his soft, unfocused eyes from Foggy’s view. “Don’t mention it.”

3.

Foggy hasn’t said anything in the last hour. Matt keeps waiting for him to leave but he’s still there, a hovering mass of anxiety and anger that makes the dread in Matt’s stomach twist and tangle over itself, again and again. A part of him wishes Foggy would just go, but the idiotic part of him—naïve and hopeful and doggedly determined, the part of him that refuses to give up without a fight—thinks that so long as Foggy stays he has a chance to fix this. Fix them. 

Foggy brings him a glass of water, sets it down on the coffee table and waits. Matt grits his teeth and struggles to push himself upright on the couch, a thin hiss slips through his lips at the feeling of each and every one of Claire’s stitches pulling at his skin, every bruise announcing itself, every nerve ending sending out a signal flare of pain. 

Matt stinks of river water and blood, can feel sweat beading on his forehead and clammy on his skin and can only hope it’s from exertion and not a sign of oncoming infection. He doesn’t have time for that. 

“Jesus.” Foggy breathes, his first word and Matt blinks, unsure if it’s an invitation to speak. It isn’t, Matt learns, when Foggy steps away, footsteps carrying him over the mess of towels and shorn clothing and all the leftover debris of his confrontation with Stick, into Matt’s bedroom. He sits on Matt’s bed with a creak of springs, sucks in a messy breath, heart beat wild behind his ribs. Matt hears him run his hands through his hair a few times, a nervous tick, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say yet but he can’t just sit here and listen to this. He doesn’t have to, Foggy knows now, knows that Matt can hear him, that Matt can recognize him even if he’s never seen his face. Matt knows him.

Matt pushes the blanket off his lap (he’s wearing underwear, clean ones, someone put them on him before throwing the blanket over him and he doesn’t think knowing whether it was Foggy or Claire will make the embarrassment sting any less), takes to his feet slowly, carefully, tries to ground himself in the sensation of the floorboards underneath. Matt isn’t sure if he’s physically swaying or if the world is tipping on its axis, tilting him back and forth like a boat on rocky waters. His stomach rolls in protest, but there’s nothing in it to throw up. 

He doesn’t realize Foggy’s come back until he’s just there, pulling Matt back from the crumbling edge of the world around him. They’re both breathing hard. 

“Matt. Fuck, just, sit.” Matt shakes his head, tries to tell him that if he sits right now he’ll never be able to pick himself up off the couch again. He jerks his chin towards the bathroom and Foggy tenses but he doesn’t force Matt back. They seem to stand there immobile for an eternity, Foggy’s hands gripping carefully at Matt’s shoulders, shaking just a little—or maybe it's Matt shivering, shaking apart inside his skin, exhaustion and pain flinching through every part of his body—but then they relax, drop away. Matt misses them. “C’mon man.” Foggy says flatly, takes Matt by the arm and Matt wants to say he’s fine, that he can make it on his own but right now he’s not sure that’s true. No, that’s a lie too, he knows he can’t. He can barely stand, he’d probably never make it across the room on his own. God, he fucked up. 

Foggy helps him all the way inside the bathroom, hesitates before asking if Matt needs him to stick around and Matt’s surprised he has enough blood left to blush when he tells Foggy he’s got it. After he washes his hands he leans against the counter for a long minute, curls and uncurls his aching hands, lets the warped sounds of the world outside these four walls wash over him. In the hallway Foggy’s waiting, growing more and more nervous in Matt’s ears. Matt grabs a washcloth and tries to rub the smell of smoke and burnt flesh and dirty water from his skin with lukewarm tap water. He doesn’t feel any cleaner for it, just colder, sinks momentarily against the closed bathroom door before he can bring himself to ease it open. Outside, Foggy’s still waiting. 

He walks Matt back to the couch and this time he offers Matt the glass of water he left sitting on the coffee table along with what he says is an antibiotic Claire left behind for Matt. “Here.” He says, taking the glass back from Matt. He doesn’t elaborate, handing off the sweater he must have brought out of Matt’s room. Matt struggles to get the first sleeve on, grimaces as he tries to get his right arm into the second sleeve. Foggy stands by silently for a second before he lowers himself onto the couch beside him, straightens out the sweater so that it covers Matt’s back and helps maneuver the second sleeve until Matt’s successfully put it on. If he wanted to convince Foggy that he can take care of himself, this isn’t selling it. It only gets worse when Foggy helps him put on sweatpants, hands patient and impersonal. His breath puffs warm over Matt’s knee momentarily as he crouches to get the cuffs over Matt’s feet. Matt tips his head back against the couch, forces his body to cooperate and presses back any indication of pain as he lifts his hips and pulls the sweatpants the rest of the way up.

He almost loses it when Foggy kneels to roll a pair of thick, soft knit socks over Matt’s bare feet, silent and angry but still so careful, like Matt’s something that might shatter (like Matt’s something that’s already shattered, broken and poorly pieced back together, ready to crumble at the first rough touch. And maybe he is). 

There’s a memory crawling forward from the back of his mind, Dad coming home late one night and pulling the blanket up over Matt. (“Did you win?” Matt whispers and Dad smiles at him, the right side of his face swollen, blood still caught in the lines around his eyes. “Go to sleep Matty, you’ve got school in the morning.”) It can’t have been that long, Matt thinks, blinking wildly up at the ceiling, hiding his face just in case Foggy’s looking. It can’t have been that long since the last time Matt truly believed he had someone to take care of him. But everyone he can think of has left. Foggy is here now but it’s only a matter of time, it was only ever a matter of time before he left too. Looks like time's up.

Matt’s eyes sting and he opens his mouth to thank Foggy, to explain, to make things right. 

Nothing comes out. 

4.

“Um, hey.” Matt says, like it’s normal for your ex-partner and on-again off-again on-again best friend to show up unannounced at your door on a Friday morning with an armful of groceries. “Can I come in?” He asks tentatively as though Foggy could keep him out even when he wasn’t 83% Nyquil right now. “Well, at least you used the door.” He says, voice congested and rough. It scraps all along the inside of his throat and makes Foggy regret speaking at all. “Fair warning, I’m probably contagious.” 

Matt smirks, “I’ll risk it.”

Foggy starts to snort but winds up coughing wildly instead, agitating the tightness in his chest that’s been building all week. He’s starting to understand why Jeri threatened to have him physically removed from the premises when he showed up at the office this morning.

“How fearless of you.” Foggy wheezes, starting his sad penguin shuffle back to the nest of blankets he’s made up for himself on the sofa. Matt wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Foggy hates him for how badly he wants to laugh. “Close the door already”, he says watching Matt as does what he’s told. He abandons his cane by the door, follows after Foggy surefooted and steady, bypasses the sofa in favor of Foggy’s kitchen where he starts unloading his wares. There’s a whole lot of vegetation appearing on Foggy’s countertop, and a raw bird to boot. “Am I dying?” Foggy asks, vaguely amused when Matt rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands, utterly at home in Foggy’s kitchen. Matt barks a short laugh, shakes his head. “I hope not.” He watches Matt work from his perch on the sofa, the hypnotizing rhythm of the knife blade slicing up and down as Matt neatly chops carrots, potatoes, celery, onion. He can’t remember the last time Matt cooked for him. When they were roommates still, probably. Simpler times. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Foggy rasps, tipping sideways on the sofa and losing sight of Matt all together, though he can still hear the blade at work, clipping through vegetables smoothly. There’s a brief intermission for coughing after the question, Matt's answer drowned out by the unrefined honk of Foggy’s nose as he tries to alleviate some of the pressure bottled up in his sinuses.

“Gave myself the day off.” Matt says when he appears at the armrest by Foggy’s head, offering Foggy a cup containing tea that Matt must have brought with him. Foggy hasn’t stocked tea bags since last fall. “It’s ginger.” Matt says like he’s reading Foggy’s mind or the skeptical silence that floods the space between them after his answer, holding the mug out until Foggy finally reaches out and takes it. It’s too hot to drink but it feels nice in his hands, bleeds a perfect circle of warmth down through the bottom of the mug into Foggy’s stomach where he lets it rest.

“So you decided to make me soup?” Foggy asks, squinting up at Matt. He looks tired—Foggy honestly has a hard time remembering the last time Matt didn’t look tired—but better than the last time they talked, up on the roof sometime last week when Matt had been wiping at a bloody nose and spitting red specks when he talked. 

“You like soup.” Matt answers solemnly, fingers twitching at his sides for a brief moment before he’s walking away, back to the kitchen and his chopping. Foggy falls asleep with a belly full of spicy, honeyed tea, wakes up again hacking his lungs out, each cough more forceful then the last, the tightness in his chest unbearable. There’s a worrisome moment when he’s still more asleep than awake where he thinks he’s stopped breathing, panic makes his throat constrict worse and he flails against the blankets trying to get air inside where it belongs.

“Hey, hey, c’mon, you’re okay.” Matt’s hand is heavy between his shoulders, rubbing firm concentric circles, “It’s okay. You’re okay Fog.” Matt says, voice soft, and Foggy wonders who taught Matt to do this, who taught him gentleness and kindness when life only ever seems to have offered him the fuzzy end of the lollipop. He wonders if its just something Matt was always meant to have inside him, this softness no amount of blood and rage and violence will ever be able to bury. He stops rubbing Foggy’s back when the coughing quiets a little, thoughtful look on his face. “C’mon.” He says but this time he’s prompting Foggy to his feet. He’s still sluggish with sleep and cough syrup, lets himself be herded across his apartment by Matt. A tiny part of him wonders how long Matt’s even been here, but the light outside is still pale and grey and gives no indication of what time it is. 

Matt shepherds him into the bathroom, and Foggy almost asks if Matt knows something he doesn’t, would appreciate a warning if he’s about to ralph but Matt just makes him sit on the closed toilet lid, squeezes into the non-existent gap between Foggy’s legs and the bathtub that takes up the majority of the real estate in the room. “You trying to say something Murdock?” Foggy croaks when Matt reaches in to fiddle with the taps. Foggy sniffs but can’t make out whether he’s already started to reek, just adds to the fucking pressure pounding away right beneath his eyes. He hates everything. 

The room’s narrow enough that Matt can just pivot and reach out to pull the door shut. It doesn’t take long for the room to fill with steam once Matt gets the shower running. The mirror fogs up and everything gets misty and warm. Foggy breathes deep, in and out, in and out, and it gets easier little by little. Matt’s face looks flushed behind his glasses, and Foggy wants to laugh at the sight of him. “Your glasses are all steamy.” He says stupidly, making little windshield wiper motions with his fingers. (“Oh no,” Matt says drily as Foggy wipes his thumb across the rain-splattered lens over his right eye, “My vision, so compromised.”)

“Are you listening to my snot, Murdock?” Foggy asks when Matt fails to make conversation, face gone oddly pensive again, “Is it talking with an offensive New Jersey accent?” Matt grins, “Not really.” He pulls his glasses off, slips them into the pocket of his sweater. “It’s like. Paint left to dry inside a tube.” 

Foggy smiles back, “I’m grinning my ‘you’re full of shit’ grin at you Murdock.” That gets a laugh out of him at least, and Foggy blows his nose wondering what _that_ sounds like to Matt’s super ears but refrains from asking. Matt leans against the sink, blinking down at Foggy as his hair starts to wilt over his forehead. The thoughtful look is back on his face, and Foggy can’t decide if it means he’s listening to the phlegm in Foggy’s chest or the quickening heart behind it. 

It was easier to ignore this part when they weren’t technically speaking to each other, when thinking of Matt was enough to leave him breathless with anger all over again. But now Matt’s here, making him soup and improvising saunas and telling Foggy about drying paint. It surprises him actually, how often Matt’s here now, not just a physical presence in Foggy’s apartment dropping by and hanging out, but actually here, that distracted distance from the summer before gone now that Matt is opening his mouth and talking through his problems instead of trying to bury them all out of sight.

Matt bites his lip and seems to make up his mind about whatever it is weighing on him, reaches out to run his fingers through Foggy’s hair where its drooping into his eyes. He cards his fingers back, featherlight over the shell of Foggy’s left ear, “It’s nice short.” Matt says nervously, and Foggy thinks, _‘Oh, Matty’_ seconds before Matt bends forward the rest of the way and kisses him. 

“I’m definitely gonna contaminate you.” Foggy mumbles mostly against Matt’s mouth, one hand clutching feebly at the front of Matt’s sweater. Matt’s laughter huffs across Foggy’s lips. He pulls back far enough that Foggy gets a good look at him, blushed pink and smiling like he’s won a prize for world’s most adorable idiot. Matt’s hand moves to cup Foggy’s jaw, fingers rough but touch gentle as his thumb traces the edge of Foggy’s smile. “Worth it.” 

5.

Matt wakes up to the echoing boom of Foggy singing in the shower. _“Live in my house, I'll be your shelter. Just pay me back. With one thousand kisses…”_ Foggy’s not even belting yet, his voice is just naturally amplified by the acoustics of the bathroom. Matt groans into his pillow, gropes for the bedside table where he let his phone drop last night. It’s late morning after a not particularly late night, which means Foggy has less of a chance of incurring his neighbors’ wrath for holding a private concert in the shower. Matt stretches under the blankets, slowly works his way back to full consciousness. It would be easy to stay put, wait for Foggy to come back all shower-damp, smelling of Matt’s soap and shampoo. Matt could probably talk him back into bed for a little while longer, until the need for coffee and food drives them both out. But Matt feels better than he has in weeks, no new stitches in place, old bruises fading, a good night’s sleep behind him. And Foggy’s trading Rent in for Les Mis and Matt can’t just let him sing both parts of the Confrontation by himself. He has before. It’s a mess. 

“Morning sunshine.” Foggy greets him, unfazed by Matt when he kicks off his sweats and joins him in the shower. Foggy kisses him, artificial spearmint still cool on his lips, hard mineral taste of tap water on the tip of Matt’s tongue when he kisses him back. He only feels a little guilty about not brushing his teeth first. 

“I’m calling dibs on Javert.” Matt says, grinning when Foggy’s soapy hands close at his hips, tugging him more fully under the shower spray. In the walls the pipes sigh and rattle at their work, the water drips and splashes on the shower floor, and Foggy vibrates, laughing and humming. Happy. 

Foggy shakes his head and runs his hands up Matt’s sides, digs his fingers in hard into a ticklish spot Matt should have tried to keep secret longer. “Nope. Sorry buddy I already started.”

“Can’t start again?” Matt asks, lets Foggy press him back against the steam warmed tiles. Foggy presses a kiss to his adam’s apple, hums contemplatively against Matt’s skin and makes Matt shiver. “Hey, I don’t make the rules Murdock.” Foggy says, grinning into Matt’s neck. 

“Blatantly untrue.” Matt counters, sliding his fingers into Foggy’s hair. It’s still shorter than he’s used to, but still thick and soft and nice to stroke when Foggy rests his head on Matt’s lap and bemoans his corner-office life. (Nelson and Murdock isn’t what it used to be, but then neither are they. For all the differences Matt doesn't feel like he's lost anything.)

Foggy pulls back, hands at Matt’s hips again. “You’re either Valjean or you’re silent Murdock. Final offer.”

“The corporate world has changed you.” Matt says solemnly, only to laugh when Foggy crushes him close to blow a raspberry into the side of his neck. Matt’s hands come up between them, palms sliding over Foggy’s chest before curling at his shoulders. He pauses briefly at the circular scar leftover by a wayward bullet, rubs his fingers over it until Foggy stops him, one hand pressing Matt’s flat.

“Don’t go getting maudlin on my now Murdock.” Foggy says, a low rumble against Matt’s shoulder. “ ‘Cause I’ve totally got you beat.” He taps his free hand to the scar Matt wears on his right shoulder, burned in place why whatever Elektra did to draw the poison out of the wound. Under his hand Foggy’s pulse flicks, unworried and steady. ( “Hey,” Foggy says breathlessly, leaning over Matt, hands warm and heavy where they rest against his chest. “We sort of match. That’s--disturbing.” But there’s no recrimination in his voice when he says it. )

Matt swallows the urge to apologize and starts singing instead. 

They sound terrible together, voices echoing off the shower walls, one over the other. Matt forgets half his lines, butchers the rest. He’s never had much of a voice, but Foggy hoots with good-cheer when they reach their pitchy conclusion, his happiness off-tune and infectious. 

“Encore?” Foggy asks even as he reaches for the shampoo bottle, tapping some out onto his palm. He surprises Matt by bringing his hands up and burying them in Matt’s hair instead of his own, working the shampoo into a rich lather. “Oh.” Matt says, enjoying the firm press of Foggy’s fingers over his scalp, the light drag of his nails. There’s a part of him that wants to reach for Foggy’s face and kiss him, maneuver them into a warm corner of the shower and kiss him until he’s trying to catch his breath for a different reason. Matt wants to make Foggy pant and listen to the sound of his own name reverberate inside the room, shiver over his skin. But the floor is slippery underfoot and Foggy doesn’t trust Matt to keep them both upright after the last time (as though he could be blamed for being overwhelmed. It’s practically a compliment, if you think about it). After this, Matt thinks, he’s definitely dragging them back to bed, damp sheets be damned. For now he settles for resting his own hands on Foggy’s sides, warm, wet skin soft under his palms.

Under his breath Foggy starts singing about pockets full of sunshine, tries to fashion a mohawk atop Matt’s head. His hair isn’t long enough for it, but it feels good. 

Matt hums along.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Death Cab for Cutie's _Soul Meets Body_
> 
> Happy holidays y'all! And a happy new year! May 2017 be kind to you <3


End file.
